


To Serve and Protect

by Chunky_Squirrel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chunky_Squirrel/pseuds/Chunky_Squirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme prompt: Illya obviously has a protective streak for Gaby, even after she's found to not be the "innocent" he thought she was. Sometimes, despite himself, that protective streak extends to Solo, too. This is obvious. It's the way they work.</p>
<p>But one day, he's surprised to see Solo and Gaby bear their teeth on his behalf.</p>
<p>I dunno, five times fic maybe? Or just a scenario where once, Illya was treated like the last chocolate chip cookie on the plate instead of a sledgehammer. ♥</p>
<p>Now translated into Russian <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4750553/chapters/10859501/">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Party

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic since starting writing fanfiction again, so it's a little rough. But I love the Man from UNCLE, and the new movie was the perfect excuse to write fanfiction again. 
> 
> You can check out my tumbr [here](http://manicferret.tumblr.com/)  
> It's multifandom, mainly a couple of anime, but also Man from UNCLE. Feel free to chat or ask me anything.
> 
> Please enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my second fic since starting writing fanfiction again, so it's a little rough. But I love the Man from UNCLE, and the new movie was the perfect excuse to write fanfiction again.
> 
> You can check out my tumblr [here](http://manicferret.tumblr.com)  
> It's multifandom, mainly a couple of anime, but also Man from UNCLE. Feel free to chat or ask me anything.
> 
> Please enjoy.

They were caught. Again. For being the top spies around, they were surprisingly bad at keeping the element of surprise. Of course, it didn't help that their faces were starting to become recognizable. They were the most effective team, and as such, they had the most missions, which put their faces out in the open. Illya also supposed their distinct features set them part as well. 

Napoleon was flashy, even when he was not. For a thief, he was ironically very noticeable. Granted, he made it work for him. Everybody noticed him, but couldn't recall him. It took several stakeouts watching Cowboy work a room, for Illya to realize it was all about misdirection. They were too busy being dazzled by the show to notice anything important. It was genius, and involved talent, even though Illya still found it incredibly annoying. It was especially grating when one of their targets was not distracted at the party, and all he had to do was look at the cowboy and point him out to several guards. 

And when he was made, they immediately began looking for his partner. That made it much more difficult for Illya to blend in, considering he was taller than everybody else. His size was also troublesome when he was forced to hide in tight spaces not designed for anybody nearly two meters tall. Illya cursed everybody and everything as he crawled though the air duct; the only available hiding spot, and now, his best chance of reaching Napoleon. 

He knew the general layout of the hotel, and was reasonably certain he was heading in the right direction. His elbows and knees were going to be sore, between knocking them against the sides of the air ducts and keeping his limbs pulled in as tight as possible, making him increasingly irritable and eager to unleash his frustration on their target. It was just unfortunate Mister Waverly wanted him alive, with the additional condition he still be able to speak. He wondered if any of the other agents had such specific conditions. Then again, he didn't socialize with any agents other than Gaby and Cowboy. He mused if should attempt a greater a effort to get to know the other agents. His current plan to try and be friendlier was interrupted by the frustrated voice of their target, demanding Cowboy tell him something. Illya could not quite make it out, since the man's thick southern accent and ceiling made it difficult to understand. There was also a loud, ominous, creaking sound. Gravity suddenly shifted, and Illy braced himself. 

Crashing through the ceiling in an undignified heap was not the way he would have preferred to enter the room, but at least he managed to crush the minion accompanying him, so it was not all bad. 

"You're timing is impeccable, Peril," Napoleon said. "Though your method leaves something to be desired."

"You are not exactly in any position to judge, Cowboy," he replied as he stood up and dusted himself off.

"Don't make a move, or your partner gets a bullet to the head," the target threatened. 

Illya was not overly concerned. It was a common enough threat, and he could tell by the slight waver in his voice the man was uncertain. It was all he needed. With reflexes he knew Cowboy envied, he flicked his wrist, sending a small blade into the meat of the hand holding the gun. As expected, he dropped the gun and began screaming. It was a very irritating sound. 

"Shut up or I will tear your throat out," Illya promised. 

The man immediately quieted as he clutched his hand to his chest. Satisfied he was properly cowed, Illya finally spared attention for the cowboy. A quick assessment led Illya to conclude his partner was simply a little beat up and still an idiot. 

"Well done, Peril," Cowboy cheered. "You managed to not seriously maim anybody...except maybe that man you squished on your way down."

Illya nudged said man with the toe of his shoe. A pained groan echoed in the room. 

"He is fine, see?" he pointed out by nudging him again. "And if you do not stop being a patronizing ass, I will let you get of this on your own."

Cowboy flashed him a charming smile that made Illya want to smack it off his face.

"That doesn't work on me," Illya said.

"It works on everyone," he argued. "Oh, and he has the key in his jacket pocket."

The man flinched as Illya knelt beside him and roughly patted him down. 

"No, it doesn't, " he snorted as he pulled out the key. "Remember when Gaby punched you when you tried it on her? It was a good day."

"She didn't really punch me," Cowboy defended.

"No? What do you call it then?" Illya asked. He unlocked the handcuffs and grabbed Cowboy's arm to steady him when he stood up. "Because even Waverly called it a punch. It was very amusing."

He shook off Illya's help, and began the tedious process of straightening his clothes. Illya rolled his eyes, and was about to untuck Cowboy's shirt tail just to undo his painstaking work, when something glinted out of the corner of his eye. Reacting without thinking, Illya shifted his weight to be in front of Napoleon and grabbed the object aimed for the back of his head, out of the air. He was extremely unimpressed with the blade he was now holding.

"Thank god you have such inhuman reflexes," Napoleon whistled. "And relax, Peril. He's not worth it."

His voice sounded muted, and Illya was distantly aware he was quickly heading towards a fit of anger, but before he could act on it, Napoleon smacked him on the backside of his head. The jolt was enough for him to reign in some of his anger at how the whole evening had been ruined, Napoleon had been caught, how he had to crawl through tiny spaces, and how careless he had been to allow such a close call because he hadn't been paying attention. He could still feel the anger simmering below the surface, but it was no longer threatening to overflow. Several deep breaths later, Illya felt in control again. That was why he was not the least bit worried throwing the knife back so it embedded itself in the target's leg.

"Don't look at me like that," Illya growled when he noticed the unimpressed look from Cowboy. "He is still alive and capable of talking."

Cowboy shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. 

"Well then, let nobody say you aren't a professional, Peril."

It was as close to a thank you as they ever managed, and Illya felt his shoulders relax a fraction more.


	2. Paint

When she remembered the years working as a mechanic in a small auto shop, Gaby still couldn't believe what her life turned into these days. An international spy wasn't exactly the top career choice. But here she was, sitting in a hotel room, listening to the conversations between her partners and the suspected terrorist using a chop shop as a front. It didn't require too much effort to provide the necessary details about vehicular engineering to the boys so they could convince their target they actually knew something about automobiles. So far, everything was going smoothly, and the two of them were actually doing a decent job pretending to get along. At least, pretending that their "getting along" didn't involve insults, masculine ego, and one-upmanship. 

But, no sooner did she think this mission might go according to plan that it went completely sideways. There was a loud, electronic screech, then some garbled words, and the distinct rapport of gunfire. She tried to get either of their attention, but she had no way of knowing if they could hear her or not. Everything was garbled and muffled, though she could tell they were shouting. Frowning at the turn of events, Gaby left her equipment on the table, and rushed through the room. She collected their sparse, personal belongings, packed their equipment in their cases, and stacked them by the door. They were going to need to move quickly.

The last piece of equipment was the listening device, which she tried to hear anything else, but was still hearing only static and the occasional gunshot and scream. Blowing a loose piece of hair out of her face, Gaby broke the machine down, and packed it with the rest. Then, she pulled out her keys and waited. For all that her heart was racing, the room was oppressively quiet. So much so, that she jumped when her communicator whistled at her. She pulled the communicator out of her pocket and answered.

"Teller here."

"Meet us at the corner of Adams and 5th."

Illya sounded like he usually did when he was in Russian agent mode. That made Gaby swear and move faster. Despite the bulk so many bags caused, she managed to drag everything to their car. She carelessly tossed everything in, focusing only on getting the car to the destination as quickly as possible.

Between her previous knowledge of all the streets and her skill at driving, she managed to reach the rendezvous with only a handful of violated traffic laws. The silence at the small intersection made her twitchy, and it took all her training to stay calm and appear casual. Then, in the distance, she heard gunfire and prepped herself. Within moments, Illya skidded around the corner, sprinting towards the car. Gaby leaned over and opened the passenger door just as he approached. He tossed a large lump into the seat, which Gaby realized was an unconscious Napoleon.

"Get to the extraction point. I will meet you there," Illya ordered.

Before Gaby could say anything, he slammed the door shut and took off running down the street. As much as she wanted to help, she understood she had her duties, and Illya trusted her to do so. She waited for the men chasing Illya to pass her before setting off at a casual speed. When she was certain they would not pay any attention to her, Gaby floored the pedal. Even though he was unconcious, she apologized to Napoleon as a sharp turn caused his body to bang into the side door.

As they drove, she noticed a few of the men wearing the garage's logo wandering the streets. She slowed down and turned down a side street to avoid as many eyes as possible. It took longer than it should have, but the extra time taken to ensure they weren't followed paid off when they arrived outside of the city alone. Pulling off to the side of the road, Gaby shut off the engine and took a moment to examine Napoleon. 

There wasn't any blood pooling under his body, and his clothes were relatively clean, so she concluded he wasn't shot. That was a relief. She brushed some hair off his forehead and the found his temple to be sticky. He groaned when she brushed over it, and sluggishly opened his eyes.

"Oh good. You're not dead," she said. "I would have hated the paperwork that would entail."

Napoleon frowned at her, confusion written all over his face. He looked around as he held a hand to his head.

"Where are we, and where did Peril run off to?" he asked.

"Illya said to meet him here," Gaby explained. "After he threw you in the car, he ran off."

Napoleon was about to say something, but before he could, a heavy thud beat against her window. She jumped in her seat even as she was reaching for her gun. But she sighed when she saw who it was. She quickly unlocked the door, allowing Illya to crawl into the back seat. He carelessly shoved the equipment out of his way as he made himself as comfortable as the small space would allow.

"Drive. Everything is taken care of," Illya reported mechanically. 

"Did you fall in paint, Peril?" Napoleon asked a bit too casually.

Looking in the rearview mirror, she finally noticed the state Illya was in. Illya's clothes were splattered with red, and a few red smears littered his face, as if he forgot something was on his hands. She frowned at the bland expression on his face as she turned the engine on. Though the threat was over, and the mission was accomplished, an air of danger still lurked around the corner. It was uncomfortable and stifling, and all wrong when they were all together. Finally, Illya shook his head and leaned forward.

"What happened?" Illya asked. "Why are you two being so strange?"

"Because you're covered in blood, Peril, and that tends to bring down the mood," Napoleon said incredulously.

"We are spies, Cowboy, violence is a part of the job," Illya growled. "And why are you suddenly thinking I am covered in blood?"

He made a sweeping gesture to the backseat. Illya looked at his shirt and shook his head. 

"But you already acknowledged this was paint!" he shouted, frustration evident as he gestured angrily at his clothes.

Gaby snorted and rolled her eyes at the cause of the awkwardness. The tension in the car suddenly dropped as Napoleon and Illya settled into their bickering, clearing up any misunderstandings. 

"I wasn't actually asking you about paint," Napoleon explained as he would to a small child.

"If you thought it was blood, you should have just said so," he said in the same exact tone. "Then again, I suppose I should expect you to not be at your best. You were knocked out so early in the fight, you missed everything."

They continued to jab at each other, never letting up, and Gaby simply rolled down the window and tuned them out. Every so often she would glance in the rearview mirror at Illya, studying the red that was beginning to flake onto the back seat. She wasn't certain, but she knew red paint, she had painted several cars herself in fact, and it didn't quite look like it did on Illya when she had gotten it on herself. Granted, the lighting wasn't all that good since the sun was quickly setting, so it could simply be paint. She glanced at Illya again, saw how he was petulantly trying to poke at Napoleon's head wound, and decided she wasn't going to concern herself about it. Everything felt, and sounded as it should.

"And who had to carry your weak ass over four blocks?" Illya challenged.

"My ass is not in question," Napoleon argued. "Nobody doubts this ass. My ass is perfection."

"Wait, why are we now talking about your ass?!" Illya spluttered. 

"You're the one who mention my ass first," Napoleon pointed out reasonably, and with an awfully smug grin. 

"That was not what I was talking about. At all," he protested. 

Gaby was distinctly unimpressed with their bickering, as was often the case, but she let it go because she was now very interested as to why they were arguing about squirrels. How they went from the blood of their enemies, Napoleon's ass, and then to squirrels, she wan't certain, but what mattered was Illya was still participating in the world around him and not stoically watching it pass him by when he was trying to deal with something he couldn't. For that reason alone, she decided not to say anything, and just let them be.


	3. Interrogation

It was funny, actually. Peril wasn't subtle on the best of days, but he liked to think he was, and really, Napoleon saw no reason to disabuse him of this notion, especially since it provided some of the best entertainment. Currently, Peril was chatting with a fellow agent, though Napoleon supposed calling it "chatting" was a bit of a misnomer. "Interrogation," came into mind, but Peril wasn't threatening physical or mental harm, so it seemed safe enough. Besides, this agent was new, and a little hazing was perfectly normal, even though Peril saw it as a perfectly normal lunchtime conversation. And if this new agent couldn't handle being around Peril when he was in a more charitable mood, the man wasn't going to make it as a spy. Granted, there weren't a whole lot of people more terrifying to deal with than him, but that just made it all the easier to determine the quality of a new agent. And at the moment, the new agent was doing fairly well. 

Napoleon leaned back in his chair, and watched the not-interrogation unfold. As expected, the agent was sitting with perfect posture, and studiously avoiding eye contact with anybody, especially Gaby sitting next to Peril. Every so often, she would smack him in the arm when he slipped a little too much into the outright aggression mode, but for the most part, remained out of it, expect for the occasional eye roll. She looked at Napoleon a few times for help, but he always managed to find something else catching his attention at that moment. He wasn't about to ruin his afternoon show. 

As it stood, the new agent in question was going to be working closely with Gaby for the foreseeable future on a long term misssion. She had proven to be quite adept at field work, but even more so in their technology department. It wasn't just her mechanical knowledge, which was impressive, but it turned out that her skill with transportation extended into a natural inclination towards anything technical or mechanical. Now, the mission she was charged with required her engineering expertise to go undercover at an engineering firm where she was to gain their trust in her abilities, which would then allow her to find the suspected weapon they were developing. The agent in question, one Mark Slate, was going to be her back-up, undercover as her assistant. That meant somebody other than Napoleon or Peril was going to be her support. He figured this was where the sudden interrogation came from.

It was common knowledge that nobody messed with Gaby. If she didn't verbally eviscerate the very core of a person's soul herself, then it was guaranteed Napoleon would be there to make life hell, or even worse, Peril. Nobody wanted to cross him, and a sure fire way to do so was to threaten Gaby Teller in any way. It was kind of cute how overprotective Peril could get while he tried to act like he wasn't. Gaby didn't always appreciate it, but she recognized he truly did care about her as a person he "admired and respected, and wanted the best for." Peril's words, not his. Napoleon thought it would be much simpler to say he like her, or even maybe loved her. Napoleon was still on the fence about that one.

Peril certainly had a soft spot for Gaby that he didn't share with any off the other female agents around headquarters, but he never acted any more than an overprotective guard dog. There were moments, like the ones he glimpsed during the first mission together, but as far as he knew, there was nothing beyond a few lingering gazes and sometimes, accidentally touches. Once, Napoleon had felt particularly daring, and had asked Peril about their relationship. The conversation went about how he thought it would. His face had come acquainted with the surface of his desk, and Peril had went on a very long, emotionally repressed rant against inappropriate relationships in the workplace, and how hew as too professional an agent to allow himself such distractions. It hadn't been exceptionally enlightening, so he had gone to Gaby next, and asked the same question. Their conversation also went about how he thought it would. His shin had become acquainted with her boot, and had been treated to a very similar rant. Napoleon thought they would make the cutest, most terrifying couple in the workplace. They already were, now that he thought about it, but whether romance was involved, Napoleon was beginning to suspect that neither of his companions knew what it was they had and what they wanted. 

"Peril, that's enough," Napoleon said breezily. "I believe Mister Slate has business to attend to."

"Yes, very important business," Mark babbled. "Mister Napoleon, Miss Teller, er...Mister Kuryakin. Good day."

If nothing else, Mark Slate was quick on his feet. He left their table with an admirable amount of speed. Once he raced through the doors, Gaby smacked Peril on the arm.

"What?" he asked defensively. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Gaby accused. 

"You were not talking. You were hitting. There is a difference," Peril argued as he rubbed his arm. 

"For you, my intimidating friend, those are one and the same," Napoleon felt compelled to add.

"I did not hit anybody," he said crossing his arms. "I did not threaten to hit anybody either."

"I don't know if it's adorable or sad that you're this proud of the fact," Napoleon mused. "Though you have to admit, the threat of horrifying consequences was heavily implied. I'm sure Gaby agrees with me."

"There is nothing 'adorable' about me. I am merely doing my job, vetting the new recruits to make certain they are up to the task," Peril growled.

Gaby settled into her chair with a smug grin.

"So, you're worried about me, and being your usual protective self," she challenged. "It's so cute how you worry about me."

Napoleon had to hide his grin behind his hand. Peril was far too in control to blush, but his fidgeting and general air of discomfort spoke volumes. 

"There is nothing 'cute' about this," he spluttered. "And I am not worried. You are perfectly capable of doing your job, as is Agent Slate. I was simply making sure all parties are up to the task. There is no worry here. I do not worry. And I am not going to talk about this anymore. I have something do...very important somethings."

He abruptly stood, rattling the table as he knocked into it, and deliberately did not run out of the commissary. Napoleon watched him leave with a smirk.

"Sometimes, it's just too easy," he observed. "But he does seem to approve of Slate. April is going to be thrilled that her new partner still in one piece."

"She was betting against him, you know," Gaby snorted. "She was certain he wouldn't make it through lunch."

"Does it count that I gave him an out?" Napoleon asked.

"Hmm, I'll have to check with April," she said with a shrug. Then, she turned her attention to Napoleon. "But at least I know it's not just me. He does this for you too, you know."

No, Napoleon did not know that about Peril. Gaby must have seen something on his face, because she looked unbearably smug.

"Oh yes. It's very cute when he does that," she said. "Now, I have very important somethings to take care of before tomorrow. Good day, Mister Solo."

He was never certain how she managed to say his name with such sarcasm without actually being sarcastic. But she was adept at it, and he could only manage a quick wave before she too was gone. What he did to merit that tone, he didn't quite know, but her parting words were curious. He would need to investigate this.


	4. Secret

How he found himself in these situations, he did not know. Illya was still trying to figure it out, though he did count Napoleon as a factor. He had the time to do so since he was currently hanging from a leaky pipe, in the basement of some abandoned building that the villainous types seemed to favor. His captors were apparently taking their time gathering their torture supplies, or they were having tea, or they were looking up how to torture someone. They didn't strike Illya as the sharpest knives in the drawer. Their threats of violence were vaguely amusing, and reminded him of those ridiculous action movies Americans were so fond of.

While it was disappointing he was going to be interrogated by the dullest group of enemies ever, Illya was also pleased that they were inept enough to hang him from a low rusty pipe that wiggled suspiciously at the slightest movement. He sighed at the quality of villainy these days. It took an unsurprising lack of effort to break the pipe from the wall. It was then a matter of sliding his cuffs off the pipe and opening the door. He debated using the knife in his sleeve, or the small pistol strapped to his ankle as a lesson in searching the prisoner for nay weapons upon capture. But in the end, he decided to use his bare hands. There was less chance of permanently damaging one of them on accident. Mister Waverly preferred all targets alive and able to answer any questions UNCLE may have.

He found them shortly after climbing the stairs to the main floor. They were standing around a makeshift table made out of a broken pillar, laughing about something. There was a single gun between them, and it was resting in the center of the table, angled at one of the other men. At least they had the safety on. Illya had to at least give them credit for that, even though it was more than likely they simply didn't know about the safety in the first place. It was carelessly left where nobody would be able to grab it any reasonable amount of time, let alone switching the safety off and aiming. Overall, he was distinctly unimpressed, though did find it rather convenient to be able to casually pass by them and walk out the front door that was helpfully open and unguarded.

The professional in him was still cautious enough to listen for any sounds of somebody noticing his absence, or was about to attack him, but the professional in him was also very amused, and slightly insulted by the staggering level of ineptitude. This was the last time he volunteered to be the bait. It was far too boring. Cowboy was supposed to arrive as back up in the next seven minutes, along with Gaby as support with the transportation. But Illya was certain he was going to pass out solely from boredom, or bashing hish head against a wall at how much he wanted to instruct his once captors on how to properly do their job. Illya had a very low tolerance for inefficiency. So instead of either inevitable outcomes, he created his own opportunity. He would now wait for Cowboy and Gaby to show up, they would take care of whatever evil nonsense these men were probably incapable of executing, and head back to headquarters where Cowboy would find a way to foist his paperwork onto him.

When he was a short distance away, the obnoxious screeching tweet of his communicator went off.

"Kuryakin, here."

"Mister Kuryakin, you have eliminated the targets, yes?" a voice Illya did not like asked.

Meyers was a militant old man who saw evil everywhere, and thought himself the bastion of justice. All Illya saw was a fool with too much power and self-importance. However, he was in a position of importance, one Illya didn't care to listen about, and as such, UNCLE was inclined to listen to his wants.

"Nobody has been eliminated," Illya answered, beginning to feel uncomfortable with Meyers choice of words. "However, the situation is in control and we will not need to worry about these men. They will be handled shortly once Mister Solo and Miss Teller arrive."

"That simply will not do!" Meyers declared with all the authority men like him thought they had. "These men are menaces to the free world and all that it stands for."

"I agree that they are involved in things too dangerous to let go, but they will be apprehended, and will no longer be a potential threat," he reasoned. "They are not criminal masterminds."

Illya wished Mister Waverly would say something now. He was neither a fool nor was he stupid. He knew exactly what Meyers wanted and Illya did not agree.

"Mister Kuryakin," Waverly suddenly said. "These men are not a part of some random crime network. They and many of the others we've apprehended are part of a greater web of conspiracy. Normally, I would have you bring them in for questioning, however, they are so low down, they have nothing of use."

"Then they will be locked away with all of the others," Illya stated. He took a deep breath and waited for the worst. Mister Waverly's tone, or lack thereof indicated he was about to say something he did not like. 

"No, Mister Kuryakin," Waverly corrected. "It has been decided that it is in the best interest of all parties that they be a non-threat permanently."

And that was what Illya was waiting for. Still, it felt jarring to hear execution orders. Since joining UNCLE, he had never had a wet work assignment. It was naïve of him to assume it would never come up, but it wasn't until now that he realized how unpleasant he had found them. Killing people came with the spy territory, and Illy had little regret over his kills, but those were a matter of life and death. If he didn't kill first, he would be killed. Killing because he was ordered to had been common enough during his years as a KGB agent, but they were never satisfying. Now, his heart beat heavily against his chest and a heavy pit settled in his stomach.

"If you are incapable of doing what is required of you, I'll have Solo handle it," Meyers explained matter of factly.

The thought of Napoleon being asked to do this, or even worse, Gaby, made Illya angry. He knew Napoleon had to have had his fair share of wet work assignments, but he imagined they would weigh heavier on him than it would Illya. And he was not even going to entertain the thought of Gaby being ordered to do it. And even if it killed him, he would make sure she never had to experience it. Neither of them should have to deal with such unsavory work if they didn't have to. Illya could, and would do it. This was what he was good for, and he did not regret being used in this capacity if it meant Napoleon and Gaby did not have to.

"That will be unncessary," Illya said. "I will take care of the situation before Solo or Teller arrive. They do not need to be bothered with this."

"Of course. This is a classified aspect of the mission," Waverly assured. "The fewer people who know, the better for security."

"Yes, sir," Illya replied.

Perhaps it was for their sake, or it was his own cowardice, but Illya cringed at the thought of Napoleon and Gaby learning what he was about to do. He did not feel pride, only emptiness. Even the anger was absent. All he was left with was a lingering anxiety that he would be viewed differently by the them. Whether he was more anxious to see how negatively they could react, or how they would look at him with pity, Illya hated how he was now subject to these kind of thoughts. UNCLE was making him soft.

"Very good, Mister Kuryakin," Waverly said, still sounding too controlled. "Clean up crews will be there shortly to take care of everything left over."

Illya didn't wait to hear anything else. He especially didn't want to listen to Meyers anymore, and he hoped he would be gone by the time he returned to headquarters. So he shut off his communicator and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. With a deep sigh, Illya focused his energy inwards, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush through his veins.

Everything was painfully simple when he walked back to the warehouse. The men inside were still joking around their table. As far as Illya could tell, they hadn't noticed his escape. That made it easier to sneak up on them, and knock them out before the gun could even be grabbed.

He quickly checked each of their pockets until he found the key to his handcuffs. After the handcuffs were removed, he walked over to their table and picked up the gun. It was a simple 9mm, and a knock off brand of gun as well. The weight of the gun was a bit off, and when he checked the magazine, he knew why. There were only a few bullets left, which was plenty to finish his mission. He released the safety and fired a single bullet into the heads of each of the men unconscious on the floor. When he finished, he set the gun back on the table where he found it, and walked away.

And Illya kept walking until he was about half a mile away from the building. There was a stump near the road shaded by a large tree. As he sat down on it, he could hear the sounds of a speeding car in the distance. A quick glance at his watch indicated they were right on time. With a deep breath, Illya reminded himself why he did what he did, and promised himself to never reveal what happened this day.

 


	5. Explosive

Sometimes, Gaby wondered what her life would be like if she didn't always have to play mother to a couple of the deadliest spies in the world. She imagined it would be quieter, and she would be able to get more work done. It sounded wonderful and peaceful. Unfortunately, that wasn't how her life was, and instead, she was trying to work in the garage, fixing up another car that had been completely totaled on another mission, and making sure UNCLE would not be short one American or Russian spy.

Most days, Napoleon and Illya got along well enough. They were never quiet about it, in fact, most of the other agents could tell the current atmosphere in UNCLE headquarters based solely on the level of bickering and nagging the two were engaged in. When they were fighting, however, nobody wanted to be anywhere near them. This was one of those times when they were fighting, about what, she didn't know, but everybody was feeling it. That was why they were in her garage right now. They had been unofficially banished to her domain so she could deal with them, or they would at least be out of the way of everybody else. 

At first, she tried to be optimistic since they were actually silent, and sitting in opposite corners of the garage. But as the hours wore on, she slowly lost her patience, and with it, any hope for this resolving itself on its own. 

She never imagined that two grown men could sulk so much. They were saying nothing to each other, but the glacial stares they sent each other might as well been one of their yelling matches. Gaby tried to ignore it, but the tension was becoming too stifling, and she couldn't get any work done. 

"What is the matter with you two?" she finally asked, throwing her wrench on to her worktable. 

The clanging shattered the current standoff, and both Napoleon and Illya went back to sulking in their respective corners, staring stubbornly at the walls. Gaby could not believe this was her life now. She was an international spy and here she was, trying to babysit a couple of overtrained children. 

"No. You are not going to do this," she ordered. "You two are going to talk about this right now, so I can actually get some work done."

"That would be great, and I would absolutely love to, however, the Red Peril refuses to talk about it," Napoleon explained, sending a sharp glare to his partner while doing so. 

"Talk about what?" Gaby asked. She still didn't know what caused this in the first place. 

"I don't know," he replied. "I simply asked him what was wrong."

Illya snorted, but remained silent.

"Oh no. You don't get to act like that," she ordered. "Did Napoleon actually ask what was wrong."

She ignored the indignant "hey" from Napoleon and stared expectantly at Illya. 

"There is nothing wrong," Illya suddenly insisted. "Cowboy just doesn't know when to leave something alone. I said everything was fine, so everything is fine."

"Really? That's what this is about? Because you two couldn't have a civilized conversation?" she asked. 

They remained suspiciously silent at her accusation. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she sought out some semblance of inner peace. 

"See now, I would disagree with you there, Peril," Napoleon said. "Something is wrong, and like the considerate person I am, I want to know."

"It's not your business," Illya stated.

"Ha! So you admit something is wrong," he crowed. 

"I said no such thing," Illya vigorously denied. He crossed his arms, which did nothing to dispel the image of a sulking child. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

"Well somebody has to because you certainly won't say anything," Napoleon sniped. 

"I don't say anything because nothing is wrong!" Illya finally shouted. 

Gaby rolled her eyes and threw a couple of her wrenches at them. They easily dodged the objects, but it served its purpose of shutting them up and getting their attention. 

"Why do you think something is wrong?" she asked with a calmness she didn't feel. She immediately held up a finger, forestalling any comments from Illya. 

"He's been off since that last mission of ours," Napoleon said. "You know, the one where you apparently couldn't wait five minutes and act according to plan. Your plan, as I recall."

Illya looked like he really wanted to say something, but Gaby didn't want him getting riled up again, so she shot him a warning glare. She turned her attention back on Napoleon. 

"What's been so off?" Gaby pressed. "Illya has not done anything differently."

Napoleon opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he was rethinking what he was about to say. She stared expectantly, and she knew Illya shared the same expression. 

"It's...well...fine," Napoleon groused. "It's my gut instinct."

She heard Illya groan and she agreed wholeheartedly. 

"So this entire thing is based off a gut instinct that you think something is 'off' about Illya. Is this correct?" Gaby asked, making sure he could hear exactly what she thought about that. 

"Well, when you put it like that," Napoleon finally sighed. "I really do hate working with you Peril."

"You're a terrible spy, Cowboy," Illya responded graciously enough. 

And that seemed to settle matters. Gaby thought it was quite stupid that the two of them could never outright thank the other, or apologize. They had their odd behviors, most of which were related to each other, however, they behaved like socially, well adjusted individuals with everybody else. With Gaby, they still had their strange behaviors, but they were always straightforward with her. She didn't have time for their bullshit. 

"Good. Now that we've figured this out, get out of here and let me work," Gaby ordered. 

Her boys obeyed, stood up, each coming up beside her and kissing her cheek. She slapped both of them upside their heads, and continued to shoo them out of the garage. 

"Excuse me, Mister Solo? Mister Kuryakin? Miss Teller?" 

They looked towards the garage entrance. A young man stood awkwardly in the the threshold, holding a small package. His badge indicated he worked in Section 6. 

"Yes, what is it?" she asked.

"I have a special delivery package for you," he explained. "Security has cleared it, and I'm here to deliver it to you."

She now wondered if this was what Napoleon was feeling when he said he had a gut feeling that something was wrong. She made no move to get closer, and pressed right behind her, she could feel how tense Illya was. Napoleon sidled in front of her and made a show of studying the Section 6 agent closely. 

"Hmm, I don't think we've every met," he said. "I always like meeting new faces. What's your name?"

"Roger, sir. Roger Harding," he replied.

"I see. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Roger," Napoleon said jovially. "I'm curious why this needed to be personally delivered, and not sent to our office. But I digress, now, let's see what we got here."

He stuck his hand out for the package, but did not move towards Roger. They stared at each other for several long seconds before Roger swallowed, in a way that could only be nerves, and took several tentative steps into the garage. Napoleon remained where he was, still flashing that charming smile that got him into to trouble as much as it got him out of it. 

As Roger walked closer, Gaby felt Illya rest his hand on her back, ready to do whatever he needed to as the situation called for. Her heart began to pound, and it was a wonder nobody heard it. Something was very wrong with the situation.

"Come on, Roger, we haven't got all day," Napoleon encouraged. "I'm sure you have your own job to get back to, right? Or is it that we are your job?"

Gaby felt the floor fall from beneath her even as she pulled her gun from her coveralls. But before she could do anything else, Illya yanked the back of her clothes, practically throwing her behind him, and as she was falling, everything moved in slow motion. She could only watch as Roger reached into his pocket, and then everything went black.

It started out with a ringing in her head that steadily turned into a blaring screech that threatened to split her aching head in half. Lights flashed overhead, doing nothing for her headache. She tried to move, but found she was unable to. Something heavy was pinning her to the floor.

At first, she panicked as the memories of Roger the disguised bomb flooded her head, but soon, her training came back to her and she focused on steadying her breathing and assessing the current situation calmly. She carefully felt the object pinning her, and was surprised to feel fabric. Her eyes widened as she realized there was more than one object keeping her from moving. 

"Illya! Napoleon!" she shouted hoarsely; her voice ruined by the smoke in the air. 

"...Gaby?" Napoleon mumbled. 

From the vibrations rumbling into her side, she determined Napoleon was the one that was half on top of her, which meant that Illya was the one pinning her, and now that her vision was coming into focus, was also pinning Napoleon. She grabbed a handful of fabric and pulled on it.

"Illya? Illya?!" Gaby pleaded. 

Her voice seemed to rouse Napoleon further awake, because she suddenly felt the weight threatening to crush her begin to move. 

"Hold on, Gaby," Napoleon grunted. "Peril seems to be doing his best to crush us."

It worried her to hear his voice laced with fear and anger, and she desperately wanted to move away and see what was happening, but she remained where she was and trusted Napoleon was moving exactly as fast as he needed to. 

"How is he?" she couldn't help but ask. 

"I'm not certain, but nothing feels broken, and there are no unpleasant objects embedded in him, so I'm going to be optimistic about it," he said with some relief. "Alright, I'm going to move him, but I still don't want to move him more than I have to. Are you able to move on your own?"

Gaby quickly assessed her physical condition and knew that she would be fine. 

"Yes. Let's go."

Slowly, she felt the weight become less and less, and the moment she could freely move her legs again, she slid out from underneath as quickly as possible. 

"Are you alright?" Napoleon grunted as he gently shifted Illya's upper body in his arms. 

"Good as can be expected," she answered stiffly. She stared blankly at Illya, and was distantly aware she was going into shock. "He protected us."

"Like the giant idiot he is, yes. It would appear so," he replied. 

"He always does things like this," she said, still feeling detached from everything.

"He really does, doesn't he?" Napoleon mused. "I wonder..."

Any other time, Gaby would have pestered Napoleon to tell her what he was thinking, but right now, she didn't care to pursue that particular curiosity. No, she was only focused on Illya's body resting limply against Napoleon. She didn't know who, or how Roger got inside UNCLE headquarters, or if there was anybody else in the organization, but she would find out and there was going to be hell to pay.


	6. Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have bothered to read this story. I can't believe the support this has gotten. I truly appreciate all of it. 
> 
> So here's the final chapter. I could have written a whole other story about this last part, but I felt like it wouldn't have quite fit with the rest of the story. Maybe I'll explore it some other time. Anyways, on with the show. Enjoy!

For being a top secret, international spy organization, UNCLE's New York headquarters was the worst kept secret. There have been several attempts to break in since its inception, and UNCLE hasn't bothered to change anything. Del Floria's entrance was the most popular entry point. However, all attempts had been shut down before anybody made it down the hallway. Why people thought barging in through one of the main entrances was actually a good idea, nobody was particularly certain other than their enemies were potentially all idiots. Napoleon had yet to be impressed by the various attempts thus far, but there was always a first.

Headquarters was a flurry of barely organized chaos. Word that the perpetrator of the garage explosion had been UNCLE personnel spread quickly, and understandably, everybody was paranoid. Security was running thin keeping all personnel in lockdown, and agents were running thin bypassing security, eager to investigate on their own. Everybody else was kept from leaving where they were when the incident occurred.

Napoleon fell into the agent-bypassing-security category. He had been summoned to Waverly's office on a private channel on his communicator, and now had the displeasure of trying to get through the understandably frustrated security. On any other occassion, Napoleon would have wheedled, charmed, or otherwise snuck around those obstacles, but having just escaped from the medical section where his partner was currently unconcious, he was in no mood to humor anybody. The few who attempted to stop him were fiercely ordered to get out of his way, and one overzealous security officer was laid out flat when he tried to refused to let Napoleon pass. He made it to Waverly's office, not even bothering to greet his secretary on the way in. 

"Good. You're here. Have a seat, Mister Solo," Waverly motioned towards the circular table at the center of his office. "And how is Mister Kuryakin fairing?"

"Well enough, I suppose," Naopleon said, settling restlessly in a chair. "No major damage, though I've been assured even Peril is going to be feeling this for the next few days."

"Yes, it's fortunate he's as durable as he is," Waverly mused. He took his time sitting down, patting his pockets for something. "Now, we must look into this unpleasant affair of who has done this, and if there are any others. Needless to say, I'm quite displeased with these turn of events."

That was an understatement. From the agitated way Waverly finally pulled out his matches, and the focus on lighting his pipe, Napoleon knew they were going to be hunting the perpatrators to the ends of the Earth. 

"As of right now, I don't think this Roger fellow was working with anybody else at headquarters," Napoleon offered. "However, I'm under the impression this was connected to something, or someone larger."

"How so?" he asked, finally reclining in his seat with a deep puff on his pipe.

"To get through the security measures in order to even work at UNCLE would be extremely difficult. The background checks, the testing, all of it would require an impressive resource that one man wouldn't have alone," Napoleon explained, leaning forward as his thoughts started organizing into a pattern. "It would also be too risky to try and get more than one mole in without notice, but if the plan succeeded, then UNCLE would be down three of their top agents, and in the midst of the chaos, either finish UNCLE off, or put more moles in place. So this something or someone would have to have considerable resources, influences, and agenda."

Waverly hummed around his pipe. Napoleon still wasn't sure what that meant. For such an unassuming man, Waverly was distinctly difficult to read. It also didn't help that he moved at his own pace, and expected everybody else to move accordingly, even if they weren't certain what that pace exactly was. It would be a mistake to assume he was not in control.

"Interesting theory, Mister Solo, and one I'm inclined to agree with," he said. "Be that as it may, I'm still having a full investigation conducted, and that's where you come in. You're going to organize and execute any necessary cleanup in UNCLE personnel. Miss Teller will join you, as will Mister Kuryakin when he is able. You can also recruit whomever else you deem necessary."

That was exactly what Napoleon wanted to hear.

"Of course, Mister Waverly. I'm on it," he assured as he stood up, already planning what needed to be done.

"Hmm, good. That will be all," Waverly waved him off. 

With a final nod, Napoleon exited the office, pausing briefly to apologize and reassure the young secretary everything was fine. Having Waverly's blessing to investigate the situation lifted a weight off his shoulders. He would have hated how tedious it would have been if he had to do so behind Waverly's back. His step was lighter knowing that he was going to get to the bottom of this.

He met little resistance on his way back to medical, whether it was because Waverly had given some sort of order to let him move freely, or because of his previous walk through the halls. Either way, it took little time to arrive in the medical section, where he was greeted by a frighteningly normal amount of chaos.

A doctor, two nurses, and Gaby were trying to keep Peril from stomping out of the room. They were doing a poor job of stopping him. The medical staff didn't want to get near him, and Gaby looked like she wanted to manhandle him, but afraid to hurt him. Peril was moving a bit slower, and held himself stiffly, though Napoleon figured that meant he was about the same level as an average, perfectly healthy man, rather than the usual determination to prove he was some sort of superhuman. That meant nobody would be keeping him where they wanted. 

"Being your usual, charming self, Peril?" Napoleon asked. He stood in the doorway, cutting off the single escape route. "You know, most people would take the opportunity to rest after getting themselves blown up."

"I am still standing here, therefore, I was not blown up. I was near an explosion, that is all," Peril growled.

"Oh, is that all," Napoleon said, crossing his arms. "But still, if I were a doctor, you should probably still be in bed."

Peril rolled his eyes and once again attempted to step around Gaby. 

"Then it is a good thing you are not a doctor," he shot back, frowning at being thwarted by Gaby again. 

He looked like he was going to say something else, but be was interrupted. 

"What's going on in here?" 

A Section 3 agent, Agent Norville, if Napoleon was remembering correctly, was standing expectantly in the hallway. 

"Oh nothing to be concerned about," Napoleon waved him off breezily. "Peril is just being difficult. As usual. We have things handled here."

Norville peered over Napoleon's shoulder, and Napoleon was not pleased at the man's expression when he saw Peril. 

"In case I wasn't being articulate enough, what I meant to say was, go away," Napoleon didn't quite order. 

"I can't do that, Mister Solo," Norville replied. "Nobody is to leave their current locations."

Napoleon sighed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"Mister Waverly has just ordered me, Miss Teller, and Mister Kuryakin to investigate this matter," he explained with patience he didn't actually have. "So in order to do so, we are going to be moving freely around."

As an after thought, he looked over his shoulder and smirked at Peril. 

"Well, Miss Teller and I will be moving around freely," he said. "Mister Kuryakin will be looking into matters in our office, where he won't leave."

Sometimes it was too easy to ruffle his feathers. Gaby placed a gentle, yet firm hand on Peril's chest, preventing him from marching over and letting Napoleon know exactly how he felt about that plan.

"Then I'll stay with Kuryakin and make sure he doesn't go anywhere," Norville stated matter of factly. "I don't think it's wise to leave him unsupervised."

"While I have to agree that Mister Kuryakin does need adult supervision," Napoleon said with a quick grin tossed said man's way. Then he turned back to Norville. "I'm beginning to think you and I have very different reasons for doing so."

"I don't know what you mean," Norville said, genuinely confused. "Anybody could have done this, and it's only reasonable to suspect a known communist living on US soil. You can't trust any of those commies to not try something like this."

"He is always saying these things," Peril explained as if he was defending Norville. "Just let him do what he wants. It will make him shut up, and we can get on with the investigation."

It wasn't often Napoleon felt ill will towards another person. He may not particularly care about many people, but he generally didn't wish anything bad for them. This wasn't one of those times. Yes, there had been some tension between several UNCLE personnel and Peril, which was to be expected considered most of the New York agents were American, but as far as Napoleon knew, those had been settled rather quickly after Peril proved to be a loyal UNCLE agent time and again. And despite what Peril seemed to think, he was actually fairly liked by most everybody. So it caught Napoleon off guard to hear about it now, and it made him quite angry to learn Peril heard it from him often enough to have stopped caring about it.

"Mister Norville, Mister Kuryakin is no more suspect than you, me, Miss Teller, and Mister Waverly," Napoleon said lowly. "And the only reason I'm counting you on that list is because you're far too narrow minded and imbecilic to be a double agent of any kind. Also, I hope your reflexes are good. Or not."

He didn't have any time to respond, because Napoleon stepped to the side and Gaby immediately punched Norville in the face. 

"You need to work on taking a punch better," Gaby instructed coldly. "Maybe drink more milk? You do seem to have soft bones."

Norville rubbed his jaw and was attempting to stand up, and Napoleon helped. He gripped the knot of his tie and under his collare, and dragged him up. Norville made extremely satisfying gasping noises, and Napoleon pressed in close, effectively pinning and limiting his movements. The hands scrabbling at his grip were ineffective. He leaned in close so he could speak into Norville's ear.

"Now listen very closely," Napoleon said softly. "If you value your well being, you will never speak to or about Illya like that again. I will end you on a profound level, and that's just me. I'm certain Miss Teller has her own views on the matter. And you're fortunate Mister Kuryakin is so tolerant, because let me tell you a secret. Of the two of us, Illya is the nice one."

The smile he gave Norville was full of promised vindication, and when he was satisfied his point was made, Napoleon let go and began straightening Norville's tie and collar as he coughed and choked for air. 

"Now, Mister Norville, what are we going to do now?" Napoleon asked. 

He was about to answer, but a quick glance at Gaby changed his mind. She was leaning against the door frame, idly swinging one of her wrenches. 

"I'm going to check in on with security about Mister Waverly's orders and let them know that you, Miss Teller, and Mister Kuryakin will be conducting the investigation," he blurted. 

With an approving nod from Napoleon, he nearly ran down the hall. Napoleon waited for him to disappear around the corner before sharing a smug grin with Gaby. 

"Why did you do that?" Peril asked, interrupting their satisfying victory with a very stupid question. 

"Are you honestly asking me that?" Napoleon frowned. "Because...you know what, I can't. Gaby?"

"Illya, let's say Norville was saying that about me, and had been for some time," she said. "You don't find out about it until later, after I've been nearly killed, and he then accuses me of arranging it. What would you do?"

Napoleon could practically see the righteous indignation on Peril's face as he undoubtedly ran through that scenario in a highly detailed format in his mind. He was was about to say something, most likely about how Norville would be dead, or near dead, since Peril was also very efficient about minimizing paperwork, and killing another agent was a lot of paperwork. But he suddenly snapped his mouth shut, and appeared to make the connection Gaby was hoping for. And then Napoleon was certain he did, because Peril grunted angrily and stared everywhere except for Napoleon and Gaby.

"Fine. But I don't need you, either of you, to protect me," he groused. 

"No, you don't need it, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve it," Napoleon said.

"Why do you protect me and Napoleon? We're more than capable of protecting ourselves," Gaby added pointedly. "Don't you think the same could be said about us?"

Again, Peril fidgeted in his awkward way whenever feelings became involved, and Napoleon felt himself grin at his discomfort. 

"Fine, fine. You made your point," Peril grudgingly admitted. He scowled exaggeratedly at Napoleon. "I absolutely hate working with you, Cowboy."

"You're a terrible spy, Peril," Napoleon laughed. 

Gaby rolled her eyes and sighed. Loudly.

"You two are idiots."


End file.
